


To Speak Of Rules And Privilege

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-29
Updated: 2008-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There aren't many official rules at Wammy's House, but then you have the unofficial list...</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Speak Of Rules And Privilege

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tierfal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/gifts).
  * Translation into Italiano available: [Regole E Privilegi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/114114) by [Jenwryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn)



> Another thunderstorm-inspired piece, this story is the first of two Mello/Near one-shots I've been working on this week. As always (whether I say it publicly or not) my thanks go to Tierfal. For simply being her. And for encouraging me in the most splendid ways. &lt;3

_A person not only ticks, he also chimes and strikes the hour, falls and breaks and has to be put together again, and sometimes stops like an electric clock in a thunderstorm._  
~ James Thurber (1894 - 1961).

*

There aren't really that many official rules at Wammy's House. _Do your best. Play nicely. Respect others. Don't jam people's fingers in the case of the baby grand piano._ L - and thus Roger through him - has never held much with regulations and the straight-laced sensibilities of mainstream conservative life, and so it's to be expected that his clever mess of orphans are to be brought up in an environment fit for making mavericks, geniuses and bold thinkers, not necessarily polite members of society. What few rules he does require, therefore, are all perfectly nice, and eminently reasonable.

There are, however, also the unofficial rules. _Don't so much as breathe on Mello's chocolate (unless you're Mello). Don't even dream of touching Matt's games (unless you're Mello - or Matt). Don't pick on Near... unless you're Mello. _It's a well-known fact that the unofficial rules don't necessarily make quite as much sense as those hung up on the sheet of faded print beside the door to Roger's office. On the other hand, it's an equally well-known fact that they're more strictly enforced. But still... Nobody has quite worked out that last one. Matt makes sense - he's Mello's best friend, after all. What one does, the other does, and Matt is the only person who can make fun of the slender blond and come away not only unscathed but also grinning cheekily. But Near? Aren't they rivals? Doesn't Mello hate him...?

Of course Mello hates him. He hates him with the fire of a thousand suns, with the piercing rage of beestung fingers scraping nails against eyes, with the strength of every implausible hyperbole ever uttered by human tongue or scrawled out in rage by ink and pen.

It's the certainty of that knowledge that Mello girds himself with, like a well-worn security blanket, as the thunderstorm crashes around them yet again, shaking the very cornerstones of Wammy's House like a skeleton awoken and rattling to get out, shooting gasps of white-blue light into Mello's room and painting garish shadows along the walls and down behind the desk, black-white-_blue_-black, imprinting blinding marks upon his retinas. They all have their own rooms at Wammy's - _it encourages respect for personal space and enables independent study to take place at varying hours, _explain the official recommendations - and Mello is particularly fierce when it comes to keeping his room private. He only allows, in the context of normal daily life, one child across the threshold, and that is Matt. But out of that context, out of that context on nights when storms rip and snarl at the fundamental structure of the world itself, when the sky bruises fists of unbound air against the window panes - then things are different...

Mello's eyes are open in the half-light as he listens to the breathing of the younger boy who lays, curled up, against him. Near is still awake, Mello can tell, and he trembles slightly at every boom and flash, his face even paler than usual in the gleamings of the tempest.

"Go to sleep already," orders Mello in a gruff, quiet mutter. "You're safe here."

At the sound of Mello's voice, Near snuggles even closer, nudging his way between Mello's arms until the older boy gives in and wraps them tight around him. He's acutely aware of the way his touch stills Near, of how the proximity of his body and the encircling of his arms bring the boy's trembling almost to a halt.

Near's hands, pressed up against Mello's chest, are small and trusting.

"Near is safe with Mello," agrees the pale child in a whisper, his voice buzzing against Mello's neck with a warm vibration.

A thousand responses, sharp as kitchen knives, blossom in Mello's mind, but for once he doesn't speak. Instead he rubs his thumb comfortingly along Near's finely curved spine, and just listens as the boy's breathing grows steadier and heavier until he finally drifts off to sleep with his hands entangled in the soft cloth of Mello's pyjama top.

For a moment, the older boy considers shifting him, but then decides against it, moving even closer instead, curling his knees up against the white-haired prodigy. It's comfortable that way, he tells himself, that's all. It's not because Mello likes the feeling of that warm weight in his arms; not because he finds the low, steady beat of Near's heart against his chest so very reassuring.

Near... Near has always been frightened of thunderstorms. It's a strange quirk in an otherwise apparently unshakable boy, but Mello can't even remember when it was that Near first began seeking refuge from them in his company - sitting unusually close by if it's daytime, and burrowing against his pyjama-clad body if it's night. And it's strange, because they never so much as touch at any other time. And it's stranger, because they both know that Mello hates Near (resents him, is confused by him) and they both know that there's a streak of sadism in Mello that likes to see Near scared and yet - and yet he has never once turned the boy away when the lighting streaks down and stains the world silver. Never even contemplated it.

Mello is allowed to frighten Near.

No-one else has that privilege.

Not even the weather.

*

If Near and Mello sleep better during thunderstorms at any other time, warm and safe and curled against each other with soft wisps of hair and clinging fingers, they never speak of it when the weather is fair.


End file.
